


Invite Me

by SkinSlave



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band), Marilyn Manson - Fandom
Genre: Cross-Posted on Wattpad, Dream Sex, F/M, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, Makeup, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Surreal, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 22:51:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16396601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinSlave/pseuds/SkinSlave
Summary: A rainy day becomes a surreal encounter for a young artist.TW: religious symbolism, weird behavior, overuse of lyrical references.





	Invite Me

The rain hissed against my window, a misty sound I could almost feel. It was a strange day that began with an amber glow and hadn't changed. I had no schedule, no calls to return, no alarms or reminders. The day was mine. I couldn't remember the last time I'd truly owned a day.

I curled up on the couch with a nearly spent notebook and sharp pencils that smelled like old books. The mug of Chai on the side table and the fleece blanket over my feet warmed me. I set my phone to a playlist that I knew would be inspiring on a wet, cool day.

Gentle acoustic chords gave way to a voice at once soothing and provocative. I began to sketch, rough shapes whose purpose I hadn't fully divined. I laid a foundation and began to build, darker lines fleshing out my first impressions.

_Nothing's gonna change the world. Nothing's gonna change._

I was locked away from the pettiness and permanance of outside life. People swarmed the city, slammed car doors and snapped their teeth and swiped their cards. I was soft and alone. I was free.

Lines became angles. Shapes became mosaics. I chose colors that reminded me of my past. Red for the covenant, gold for the throne. They were tarnished in my memory. Each one went on soft at first, then deepened, uneven and textured.

_If you touch me, I'll be smeared, you'll be stained, stained for the rest of your life._

I felt that I had drawn a stage. She was a Madonna in leaded glass, pious and naive. What shadow would dance on her? What would pour over her and pervert her purity?

Damned if I knew. I tossed the notebook onto the side table and finished my tea. It would come to me. I could hear the rain come into its own. It drummed on the roof like falling gravel.

I lazily turned toward the window and gasped. Five pale fingers were pressed against it, and a palm that was smeared with red. The rest of the person was out of sight. I should've been frightened. Instead, I pulled on my boots and coat and ran out the door.

There was no one outside my window. A faint tinge of red caught my eye as it was washed away. They had been here. Where did they go? How bad had they been hurt? The rain thumped on my hood, drowning out the traffic. I searched the yard and ran around the corner.

He was sitting on a low brick wall, his knees drawn up to his face. His dark clothes and his position obscured his hands. But I knew somehow that this was the man who had touched my window. I ran to him and knelt down.

"Are you ok?" I felt like I was yelling, but the rain was really coming down. "Come on. We'll get you warmed up and dry."

He moved sluggishly. It was like he had given up. His wet dark hair hung over his downturned face. I could see then that his hand was cut. I managed to cajole him to my front door. He stopped outside as if he were waiting for something.

"It's all right," I said from just inside the threshold. "I want you to come in."

His thick leather boots made a heavy thud against the hardwood floor. He raised his head and, for the first time, I got a decent look at him: ruined dark eyeshadow, dark lips, black shirt, vest and tailored pants. He was soaked to the bone and bleeding on my floor.

I ran to the kitchen and returned with a towel. He took it without a word and wrapped his palm tightly. He stretched and curled his fingers as though trying on a glove.

"Let me get you something bigger," I offered, already on my way to the bath.

I brought back a thick white cotton towel. He took it, smiling broadly. His teeth were rimmed with silver. I couldn't help but stare as he dried his hair, careful not to touch his face, and blotted his clothes. I would've bet every dime I had that Marilyn Manson was standing in my foyer. As though on cue, my phone switched to the next playlist.

_So what's a nice place like this doin' round people like us?_

He looked toward the side table and spoke for the first time.

"Good taste."

A part of me screamed not to say anything, to just treat him like any other person. Other parts wanted to grovel, to slather him with compliments. I split the difference and offered to dry his clothes.

"That is, uh," I stuttered, "if you want to, I have a robe that might fit you. You don't have to. Actually, that's a bad idea. I just-"

"If it's no trouble..." he interrupted, unbuttoning his vest.

"Oh, no," I said nervously. "I'm happy to. You can leave your shoes here if you want, and the bathroom is back there..."

His vest and shirt open, he began to remove his boots. He had all the right tattoos. He was either the man himself, or a very dedicated impersonator. I stepped back and took a deep breath. When he was finished, I led him down the hallway.

"If you give me a minute, I'll get that robe."

I ran into my bedroom, flung the closet open and dug until I found it. It looked about the right size, and was black cherry red. _This is crazy_ , I throught, running back into the hall.

The door to the bathroom was open. When I turned the corner, I caught a glimpse of a stark white body. I immediately turned around and awkwardly held the robe over my shoulder.

"Uhm, if you could try this on, I'll get your clothes into the dryer."

His hand closed around mine and slid away, taking the robe. Embarrassment and excitement shook my heart like a terrier with a rat. I didn't dare move.

"It's a little short," he said lightly.

Holding my breath, I turned slowly to face the room. The robe was a little short, ending just above his knees. The color suited him. He ran his fingers through his damp hair, letting it fall to one side. I smiled.

"You can sit in the living room if you want," I suggested.

He slid past me, turning his head as he did and whispering, "thank you," into my hair. A shiver flew down my spine.

I gathered his wet clothes and took them to the laundry room. None of the pieces had tags and I couldn't tell what kind of fabric they were. I was reeling.

_Marilyn Manson is in my house_ , my mind shrieked. _He's in my living room. I'm holding his fucking pants._

My fingers were drunk. They fumbled with the dials to select the most delicate setting. As the machine lurched to life, I took a few deep breaths. I couldn't calm down. All I could do was pretend to be calm.

I took measured steps down the hall and into the bathroom. I dug my first aid kit out of a cabinet and headed for the living room.

_You said I tasted famous so I drew you a heart._

He was sitting on the couch where I had been, holding my notebook. I resisted the urge to snatch it out of his hands. He looked up at me, then back at my drawing. His expression was blank.

I sat in the chair opposite. I felt like a child waiting outside the principal's office. He leaned forward, still looking at it. I squirmed. Without moving his head, he looked at me. I could barely see his chocolate eyes behind his brow bone.

"Catholic?" It was little more than a whisper.

"Once."

"Now?"

"No."

"Haunted?"

"Maybe."

He looked down for another moment, then sat up. His entire demeanor changed. He carefully set the notebook back on the side table and smiled.

"I'm sorry," he hummed. "You've been so generous. I shouldn't have pried."

"That's ok," I said, a bit unnerved by the sudden shift. "Is the cut on your hand still bleeding?"

He started to unwrap the towel. I leaned forward to get a better look. The cut was straight across, as if he'd gripped a blade before it was pulled. It looked deep enough. The blood slowly oozed, dripping into his palm.

"May I?" I motioned toward the couch beside him.

He nodded and turned as I sat. I cleaned the cut with a disinfectant wipe and pulled the edges closed. A few butterfly strips seemed to do the trick. A medical pad and a few turns of gauze had him looking presentable.

"Thank you." His voice was like a cello in a grinder. "You're such a kind person. You have to let me repay you."

"Oh, you don't have to do that," I said breathlessly.

The music stopped, replaced for a moment by a deep static. When it restarted, it had skipped to a different place in my collection. The corners of his mouth turned up almost inperceptably. He watched me.

_He is the angel with the scabbed wings._

I didn't move when he took the first aid kit from my hand and set it on the floor. Or when he slid closer to me. Or when he took my hand and put it on his chest, under the robe. His heartbeat matched mine.

I opened my mouth to speak, but he put a finger to my lips. His chin raised and he looked down his nose at me. Slowly, he bit his bottom lip. It was a look that dripped sex.

Something snapped in me and I wrapped his hand in mine. I kissed his fingertip and took it into my mouth. He smirked and rolled his finger across my tongue. I sighed deeply. There was no sense in hiding how I felt.

He took his hand back and pulled me onto his lap. I touched his cheeks, streaked with black eyeliner that hadn't survived the rain. His inky lips were like forbidden fruit. I devoured them, electrified by urgent need.

His hands stayed on my hips. While he kissed me back, gentle nibbles and long, languid strokes of his tongue, he seemed passive. I made up for it, grinding my hips into his lap.

I pulled away and unfastened the robe. It fell open to reveal his pale skin, his tattoos, his proud member bending toward his stomach. I stripped, throwing my clothes behind me. I didn't care that I was acting like a harlot, or that my curtains were open. I had a need and I wanted him to fill it.

_I am the Hydra._

I straddled his lap, ready to impale myself. His hands were suddenly on my hips, rough and stern. I couldn't move. His eyebrows lifted as though he was waiting to hear the magic words.

"Please," I begged. "Please, I want you inside me."

He smiled wickedly. His grip relaxed and I slid down, swallowing him. He spread his arms wide, laying them along the top of the couch. I ran my hands along them, back to his shoulders. I moved slowly at first, but gathering force like a freight train.

I kissed him deeply, raked my nails down his chest, moaned and panted. He wasn't responsive in the way I'd expected. His hips and arms were motionless. Still, he seemed to be enjoying every moment, licking his teeth and leering at me. It occurred to me that I might be using him to masturbate, but his commanding glare told me that he was using me.

He exhaled intensely, just shy of a groan, and it was too much. I slammed my hips down and threw my head back. My orgasm squeezed rasping moans from my chest. I dug my nails into his shoulders.

As my body began to loosen and my rhythm resumed, I looked down at his face. His lips had twisted into a lascivious sneer. He raised his chin until he was looking down his nose at me. I couldn't stand it.

I gripped his jaw and leaned into him, picking up the pace. I tore into his mouth like a locust, biting his lips and sucking on his tongue. I could feel his breath deepen. I leaned back and smeared his lipstick onto my fingers. I dipped them into his mouth and he lapped at them. He locked his eyes on mine and I shuddered into another orgasm.

I bucked and moaned and became aware of another feeling. He was swelling inside of me, pulsing as he came. His eyes bored into me. His lips quivered as wave after wave flowed into me. Our aftershocks seemed to subside at the same time.

I melted into him and he brought his arms down and held me. I was exhausted. I was drunk on his venom. I moved against him, enjoying the velvety feeling of his skin on mine. I kissed him gently and he responded, soothing my heat with light brushes of his tongue.

_Open your mouth, love, like a gutted church._

I buried my face in his neck. He smelled like salt and rain and sex. He stroked my back. I took a few deep breaths and sank into a warm honey darkness.

I woke with a start. I was on the couch, my blanket over my legs. I jumped up, my eyes darting. His shoes were gone. I ran to the dryer. It was empty.

_That was stupid_ , I thought. _What is he, wandering around in just his boots?_

I checked every room. Nothing. I felt empty. He had left me without saying goodbye. He had, apparently, redressed me as well. A tender gesture, but not the one I would have preferred. I walked around the couch to retrieve the first aid kit. It was gone. I found it in the medicine chest.

A vague disappointment washed over me. Had I dreamt the whole thing? No, it was too vivid. I could still smell him. I needed to find some piece of him, to make it real.

I searched for the robe. It was in my closet, hanging in the same place.

The dishtowel... Where was the dishtowel soaked with his blood? I emptied drawers and cabinets and trashcans, flinging their contents everywhere. No towel. No blood. No proof.

I stumbled through the house, boiling. He was here. I knew it. He had come in from the rain. He had worn my robe. He had looked at my sketch.

My sketch.

I tripped over the couch to get to the notebook. My stained glass Madonna, pompous and indifferent. There was something behind her, just visible. I turned the page, expecting to see a dark shape that leeched through the paper. There was nothing. I squinted at her, trying to make sense of the shadow.

Frustrated, I tore the page out. Maybe a backlight would help. I took it to the window and pressed it against the glass, still being pelted by the rain.

A hand. It was a handprint. There was a deep gash across its palm, as if it had gripped a blade before it was pulled. Below the hand, a negative, like it had been written with a fingernail: Invite Me.

_Is this what you wanted? This is what you get._


End file.
